I have received mail there for ten years, since moving to New York. It is our anniversary. I was going to give my mail box a piece of cake. Chocolate, with white stuff in the middle.
What? Snail Mail, you cry? Yes. Packages from South Africa, packages from England, from Istanbul. Letters from the Department of Homeland Security which recognizes no other form of communication (and still I am not a citizen...we wait, we wait). Magazines, postcards.
And I mail packages from here, too, and things that must be Stamped and Certified, and so does our Holly, Wood and Vine office, twelve blocks away. And so do hundreds of other businesses and human beings.
We will be in a postal wasteland. The winds will blow icy and cruel through our coats as we walk another half mile to a holdout on Canal Street.
I'm not saying visiting the post office to mail Peter Mathiessen's Shadow Country to Turkey is fun. It is not unusual to wait in line for forty minutes. The mutters of dissent in the queue regularly approach the level of mutiny, strangers bonding in intense frustration.
If you ask for a supervisor she does not arrive. I have seen her, but never when I wanted to.
The lease on 103 Prince Street expires on July 31st. Who knew the US Post Office had to sign a lease? Or could not make rent?
And why the hell do long time customers have to find out by accident? I like PO Box 19. I am attached to it.
The flier below was being handed out.